Bring it back, bring it back (don't take it away from me)
by romanticidiot
Summary: After 6000 years, Crowley finally gives up on ever getting what he wants, and leaves. Aziraphale doesn't like it, has a revelation, and goes after him. Romance, slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The character and world depicted in this fanwork do not belong to me.

Notes: Boy, am I rusty. This is more movie-verse than book-verse as it's fresher in my mind. Also, I've messed up something with formatting, bear with me. I haven't been on in a long time.

**Bring it back, bring it back [don't take it away from me]**

On the whole, the end of the world had turned out pretty well for Aziraphale. He'd kept his sushi, his precious bookshop, his corporeal form, and, fortuitously, his wine collection. The ducks were still there, and France was still there, which meant, _thank goodness_, that crepes at La Creperie Bretonne were still there.

Cronuts were still there, too, unfortunately, but you couldn't have everything.

And the silence from Heaven, well … it was nice.

Aziraphale had always suspected that Heaven was never really that pleased with his work, and had lived with a sort of anticipatory guilt for most of his time on Earth. So it was … yes, it was _nice_ to have a bit of freedom and live without feeling accountable to anyone. The anticipation of waiting for the other shoe to drop was easy to ignore for the moment, since he and Crowley had both agreed it would be quite some time until Things Got Real again.

So for now it was lunches at the Ritz and walks in the park and occasionally the odd bout of flying too-low through the streets of London and smothering giggles into Crowley's shoulder on the roof of parliament afterwards.

In fact, there was quite a lot of Crowley, in general.

And that was … nice, too.

In addition to the lunches and the flying, they had nights at the opera that ended in bickering over the soprano, and lazy mornings sharing pastries in sunny corners of the bookshop, and leisurely visits to Tadfield with multiple stops for picnics.

They talked about taking a mini-break somewhere. Spain, maybe. Crowley knew of a village with a boutique distillery where he swore the brandy was as good as it had been in 1692.

Life was as good as it ever had been.

So it was something of a surprise when Crowley appeared at the bookshop door very late one evening, with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders up by his ears, and his jaw visibly clenching and unclenching. He prowled around the tiny bookshop squinting at knickknacks and first editions with derision, throwing Aziraphale quite off-kilter.

"Do – do sit down," he said, unsettled, as he sat and fussed with arranging the tea things on the tray. "Tea? Or – or something stronger, perhaps?"

"It's fine, angel," Crowley muttered, digging his hands further into his pocket and slouching further into the room. "I haven't come to stay."

"Oh. I see," said Aziraphale helplessly, though he didn't.

Something felt … wrong. Off. The demon was inscrutable at the best of times, but this was different. Agitation was rolling off him in waves. What could it be?

"Angel," he said abruptly, halting his pacing suddenly and looking around the room, anywhere but at Aziraphale. "I'm going to go away."

"Oh, a holiday?" Aziraphale said, delighted, though puzzled by Crowley's attitude. "How perfect, where shall we go? I've thought more about that village in Spain, and I think it will be just the thing-"

"No," Crowley interrupted. "_I'm_ going away. Alone. To somewhere - else. Not here."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, and lowered the tea cup he'd been about to offer to Crowley. "Oh, I see. Well, uh, when … when will you go?"

"Soon," Crowley said shortly. "Very soon."

"Right. Right, yes of course. Do you know where you'll go?"

"No."

There was a pause and Crowley's jaw clenched and unclenched in the silence. Aziraphale cast around for something to say.

"Is there – is there anything I can do for you? While you're away, I mean? Water the plants, perhaps?"

If possible, Crowley tensed even more.

"No. No, there's nothing you can do."

Aziraphale once nodded with a faint, uneasy smile.

"Well. Well, then. That's just. Tickety boo, I suppose. And um … do you know when you'll be back?"

"No."

The word hung in the air between them and Aziraphale fidgeted briefly before standing and moving cautiously over to the demon. Crowley was strung so tightly Aziraphale feared to make even the smallest wrong move. He carefully put a hand to Crowley's arm.

"Is everything all right, dear?" He asked softly, trying to peer into Crowley's face, past the sunglasses that only reflected his face back to him. "Only – this is so sudden. I thought … well, everything's been going so _well._ So nicely. I wasn't expecting …" he trailed off.

"Wasn't expecting ..?" Crowley prodded, glancing at him.

"I wasn't expecting you to leave, I suppose," Aziraphale said, shrugging slightly. "What with the Apocawhoops and all, I thought we were going to take a break, you know. See what happened."

"And _us, _angel? What would happen with us?"

_Happen_ with them? Aziraphale thought in bewilderment. What could he possibly mean?

But Crowley was looking at him intently, his lips pressed together tightly. His entire demeanour screamed _this is important._

"Well, we would be … friends, I suppose," the angel said slowly. "Yes, good friends, I should think."

At his words, whatever had been holding Crowley together seemed to give way, and all the tension instantly bled out of him.

"Friends," he repeated heavily.

"_Best_ friends," Aziraphale amended anxiously, looking into his face again. "Oh dear, have I said the wrong thing? I _do_ want to be friends with you, dear, I do. I'm sorry about what I said before, about not liking you. You _must_ know I do like you, very much. Oh I have said the wrong thing, haven't I?"

"No, angel," Crowley sighed, cutting him off. "You haven't said the wrong thing at all."

He patted Aziraphale's hand where it still rested on his arm, and then gently slid out from underneath it.

"Well, I'll see you 'round, angel," he said as he made his way through the shop, his voice strangely flat. "Don't forget me, will you?"

"_Forget _you?" Aziraphale echoed in alarm, hurrying after him. "Just how long do you plan on being gone?"

Crowley paused in the doorway and turned, looking straight at Aziraphale for what felt like the first time in this strange, unnerving visit. The look on his face struck Aziraphale hard in the chest and pinned him to the spot. Crowley looked haggard, the dim light from the back room turning his familiar features into sharp angles and dark shadows. Quite without knowing why, fear began to well up inside of him, tumbling over itself to get his attention.

"Crowley?"

"Take care, angel," Crowley said finally, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.

* * *

After that puzzling evening, Aziraphale toddled on with his life just as calmly as before. He made himself content with his books, his walks, his sushi. He even went back to work, unofficially, sitting on park benches soothing tormented souls with a few kind words and a listening ear.

He broke up a drug smuggling ring quite by accident, and started to call up Crowley to tell him about it, before remembering that Crowley was not there to listen anymore.

He also lost a bit of weight, what with having to walk everywhere these days, and fewer excuses for ice creams and nobody to bring him boxes of little praline chocolates.

He never did go back to the Ritz, though he couldn't have said why, and always told himself, _next week._

One day, a few months after Crowley had left, Aziraphale decided to just check up on the plants, after all. Plants did need water, didn't they? No matter how their master may have threatened to deal with them should they presume to wilt or die in his absence.

He took the long way round to Crowley's flat, working a few miracles as he went. He was definitely not dawdling.

He sidled past the doorman when he reached the ultra-modern apartment complex, and made his way up to Crowley's flat. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, before giving a little cough and leaning into the door, which was surprised to find itself swinging open easily.

Aziraphale stepped inside and blinked.

This was not Crowley's apartment.

The elegant, uncomfortable furnishings were gone, replaced with soft, cream couches and rustic wooden tables and chairs. A mandala hung from one wall, and the room that contained Crowley's beloved houseplants was … simply not there.

Crowley's throne and the they're-_fighting_-angel-obviously statue were also missing.

Blushing, Aziraphale backed out of the apartment, thanking whoever was listening that the tenants of the flat he'd just invaded were not home.

He glanced at the door number again to orient himself, and stopped.

No, this had to be Crowley's apartment.

And yet, it _couldn't_ be.

He opened the door again, more cautiously this time.

On this second look, his eye fell on a familiar dark stain on the floor in the doorway of Crowley's throne room.

Ligur.

This was definitely Crowley's apartment.

But apparently Crowley did not live here anymore.

"Well," Aziraphale said to himself, straightening his jacket. "Well then. Right. Jolly good. Um."

On his way out, Aziraphale paused to ask the doorman about the tall, flashy man who used to live in the building.

"Oh, him?" The doorman said, still wondering who this impeccably dressed gentleman was and how he'd gotten into the building. "Yeah, I remember him. Came down one day and gave me an entire blooming nursery's worth of house plants. Beautiful, glossy things, never seen the like. Told me not to be too nice to them, said it'd make them soft or something. Odd thing to say, if you ask me."

Aziraphale started to feel a bit faint. Crowley had given away his plants?

"Did he uh say when he might be back?" He asked the doorman weakly.

The doorman eyed him suspiciously.

"You're sure he was a friend of yours? It's only, he sold up, you see. And I'd have thought he'd have told a friend he was thinking of selling?"

"We uh haven't been in touch. Recently." Aziraphale said, around a suddenly dry mouth. "Well, thank you for your help. And look after those plants, will you? Good day, sir."

He hurried away from the bemused doorman and out onto the busy street, where he could take a moment to gulp in unnecessary lungfulls of air. Crowley had given away his plants and sold his apartment? It couldn't be. He'd had that apartment (and some of those plants) for over a hundred years (it had always been an ultra-modern apartment block, the modern-est for each of its centuries since it initially came into being).

Aziraphale hurried quickly away from the building, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. This was all very confusing.

He stopped for a moment on the first street corner, and felt himself go cold all over when he spotted something in a tiny alleyway.

It couldn't be.

Darting a look over his shoulder, he ducked into the alleyway and crept closer to what couldn't be – but it was.

Crowley's Bentley was parked, abandoned, tucked away in an alleyway.

Aziraphale rested a shaking hand on the Bentley's hood, which was beginning to show signs of grime from the city, for the first time in its history.

Crowley had left the Bentley behind.

Crowley and the Bentley had been together even longer than Crowley and the ultra-modern apartment. They'd travelled continents together (and Aziraphale still didn't know how he'd got the Bentley to India, and he didn't want to know), faced _apocalypses_ together. Crowley and the Bentley were like - were like – well, Britain and tea.

And now it was here, abandoned, griming and decaying. Unloved.

If Crowley didn't want the Bentley anymore, and the Bentley _was_ Crowley, then Crowley clearly didn't want to be Crowley anymore.

* * *

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale stared at the badly-parked Bentley sitting outside his shop. He'd shakily driven it back, fretfully biting back curses the whole way, trying very hard to remember the one or two lessons Crowley had given him before they'd both given it up as a bad job. Luckily the Bentley knew a thing or two about driving to Soho and had taken a guiding hand, as it were.

Aziraphale hadn't been able to bring himself to just _leave_ it in that alleyway. Better to have it here, under his protection, such as it was.

But what did it all mean, Crowley abandoning his Bentley and giving away his plants, and selling his apartment?

Surely it didn't – surely it _couldn't_ mean that Crowley wasn't coming back? Ever? London had been their home for years – far longer than anywhere else they'd ever been.

They belonged here, both of them.

But Aziraphale's skin prickled as he remembered that strange wild energy that had hung around Crowley on that night he'd said goodbye. How tense he'd been, how he'd looked around the bookshop at the little knickknacks like he'd never see them again, and … and the expression on his face when he'd looked Aziraphale himself. Like he had one last moment to store up all his future memories, because there'd never be another one.

Well, if it did … if it did mean that Crowley wasn't planning on coming back to London, then … then Aziraphale just had to keep on getting on with things, didn't he? Crowley would turn up eventually, surely. He always did, even if he didn't mean to stay. 'Popping in for a quick temptation' and all that. They'd not been apart for more than a few years since … well, since the arrangement began, really. Crowley was always showing up unexpectedly to drop some bombs on some Nazis, or ask for a favour, or, or, just to chat.

After all, there was nobody else in the whole _world_ who truly understood what they'd been through. What they'd seen. Nobody _knew_ the world like they did. Nobody even knew who they were, really, except each other. Who else could understand sentences like, "Do you remember Caesar's _face_ though?" and "Rain hasn't really changed much, has it?"

So, Crowley would be back, eventually, and Aziraphale would just have to … wait.

* * *

It took four years without even a postcard for Aziraphale to realise Crowley was not coming back.

* * *

When he did realise – paying for his ice cream from the vendor in St James Park, who still kept trying to sell him an ice lolly for his friend – everything seemed to stop, just for a moment. Not like the way Crowley stopped it during the Apocawasn't, just the normal, human reaction to something so monstrously big that sensory processing simply grinds to a halt.

Crowley wasn't coming back.

There were to be no more dinners at the Ritz, no picnics, no feeding the ducks, no rare books landing suddenly on his desk that Crowley had 'just stumbled upon', no bitching over very good wine about Aziraphale's bow ties or reluctance to get a mobile device.

No too-fast drives in the Bentley with be-pop blasting through the speakers.

No sitting down on his couch to the faint and familiar scent of Crowley rising up from the cushions, or the delightful little jingle of the bell over the door that only Crowley could make.

Gone was the strange little tug in his chest whenever Crowley appeared, at the bookshop or on the park bench, or pulling up conveniently in the Bentley whenever the rain started. And gone was the fond look in his beautiful yellow eyes whenever Aziraphale begged the final bite of dessert, or fussed about paint spots on his favourite jacket.

The realisation was followed swiftly by the feeling that a light had suddenly gone out in his life.

And it wasn't even just that Crowley had left, it was that Crowley had left and _Aziraphale didn't know why._

He couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that he'd had something to do with it. Something had gone wrong that night in the bookshop. And Crowley had left.

But what? What could he have _missed_?

He walked around St James Park three times, and twice around the block in Soho before he had anything like an answer. It came to him as he approached the bookshop for the final time, thoughts running over every moment of that strange, tense evening.

"And us, angel? What would happen with us?"

What did that _mean?_ Why would Crowley want to know what was going to happen between them? They were friends. Sure, Aziraphale had had some trouble coming to terms with that over the years, but he thought Crowley knew how he felt now. So what could Crowley want, apart from friendship? _Best_ friendship?

And why had he left when he hadn't got it?

A passing car radio suddenly blared to life, or maybe it was from the Bentley itself: _He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah._

A step inside the bookshop, Aziraphale dropped his keys.

A second later, his hand flew to his mouth and his eyes widened.

Oh.

Oh dear.

Oh dear indeed.

Crowley … Crowley wanted … Crowley had wanted Aziraphale to _love_ him.

Crowley had wanted Aziraphale to love him and Aziraphale had offered him friendship. And Crowley had left.

Trembling, Aziraphale stood blankly in the doorway of his bookshop as his mind raced back in time, reassembling every moment of his entire history with Crowley.

_Anywhere you want to go._

_Shall I say thank you? Best not._

_We can go away together._

Oh this was all so very Not Good.

He'd been so, so blind and had driven Crowley away, when Crowley could have had … Crowley could have had _everything_.

He wasn't much of an angel by anyone's standards, but if Crowley had wanted him, all Crowley had had to do was _ask_. Because the simple fact of acknowledging that _Crowley_ could have been in love with _him_ was rapidly uncovering another well-hidden secret, so well-hidden even he hadn't known it but now couldn't deny it.

He was in love with Crowley.

Every flash of that red hair, that crooked grin, the superior stylish clothes, the dark glasses, had lit him up from the inside like nothing else ever had. Across smoky bars and chariot races, sodden marshes and barren airbases. It had always been _him_.

Crowley who had all the answers, who knew the best shortcuts, who'd hung the stars, who'd called him angel, who'd trusted him to share his thoughts and his incessant questions with. Who'd hissed a fire ball at Gabriel for the way he spoke to Aziraphale (Crowley had been shaking with rage when he recounted it to Aziraphale afterwards and Aziraphale had thought nothing of it – how blind he had been).

Who'd left his Bentley and his plants and his apartment behind when he'd had enough of waiting for Aziraphale to _catch the hell up._

"Oh dear. Oh deary, deary me," Aziraphale moaned softly to himself, wringing his hands.

Just then, his letterbox slot opened to admit a letter.

He was sent so few letters that this was really a very unusual occurrence.

He paused his crisis to investigate.

The letter was written on crisp, modern writing paper and this is what it said:

Aziraphale,

It turns out that Agnes wrote another book, The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies. But Newt and I burnt it, sorry about that.

Found this one under the couch, though. I think it belongs to you.

All my best,

Anathema

Attached to the crisp modern note was the same thick, ancient paper stock as the rest of Agnes's prophecies.

It read:

4451 Find him, ye old fool.

* * *

Find him. Right. Well that was going to take some thought.

After all, one did not simply dash after one's companion of 6000 years to tell him they loved him and beg for forgiveness, without a _plan_.

So first things first. Aziraphale was going to learn to drive.


	2. Chapter 2

After six months of preparation – learning to drive (with much gentle encouragement from a Bentley who missed being driven by someone who knew where top gear was), buying appropriate driving gloves, and tying up loose ends – Aziraphale was ready.

He stepped out onto the street on the morning he was to begin his quest, feeling very positive indeed. After all, he had a new bow tie and waistcoat and the driving gloves _were_ rather dashing.

Sliding into the driver's seat of the Bentley, however, hadn't gotten any easier.

Every time he sat there he was struck by the very oddness of it and by the way Crowley's scent still lingered in the air, surrounding him.

He couldn't help running his hands over the steering wheel for just a moment, beset by countless visions of Crowley slouching his way through the London traffic, hands curled lazily around the same soft leather. Or leaning carelessly against the door frame driving with one hand, the other making quick stabbing motions through the air as he ranted on his favourite topic of the month. Or sliding his eyes sideways to see how his latest teasing comment had landed, gaze meeting Aziraphale's for just a second before darting away.

"Really now, do buck up, there's a good chap," he muttered, shaking his head so the visions fell away. "Let's just see about this, then, shall we?"

He started the Bentley's engine, put his hands around the wheel and … waited.

Because here was the thing, the thing he'd been avoiding thinking about this whole time.

He actually didn't know where Crowley _was._

Crowley hadn't sent a single postcard in the whole time he'd been gone, and Aziraphale's sense of the demon was no more useful than a vague feeling that he should go south east.

But he did have one trick up his sleeve, as it were.

Although he didn't know Crowley's reasons for abandoning the Bentley, his actions had inadvertently given Aziraphale the means to find him.

For, in the same way he'd seen dog owners do on television, he expected that as soon as he said, 'find Crowley', the Bentley would engage its own innate sense of loyalty and that would be that.

Now, whether this is actually what happened, or whether Aziraphale's hopes were so tightly wound up in his scheme that a little bit of heavenly razzle dazzle slipped out, is unclear.

The fact is that after about 10 minutes of gently patting the steering wheel and checking that yes, he'd brought the thermos, Aziraphale had the strangest urge to start driving towards Dover.

So he did.

* * *

Hundreds of miracles later, Aziraphale and the Bentley roll slowly into Auckland, New Zealand, six months after setting off from the bookshop in Soho (which is still inhumanly quickly for a journey that crossed 7 oceans, but neither Aziraphale nor the Bentley were counting).

The first thing the angel noticed as they slide to a halt, was that he could finally _feel_ Crowley again. He'd felt the sensation growing stronger the closer they got to him, but now it was like things he hadn't known were out of place were finally coalescing back together again. It becomes a low throb in his breastbone and although it's painful in a way and feels a lot like the longing he's grown to live with, it's also an incredible gift, after so long of feeling nothing.

He finds a hotel in the centre of Auckland with secure parking for the Bentley, then actually sleeps for two days. He's been in so many different places, timezones, and cultures recently and has been so overstimulated with sights, sounds, and tastes, that his mortal form is almost ready to perish. He know this by the fact he can even _tell_ that he's tired, which is usually his body's last gasp before it gives out entirely (the last time had been during the bubonic plague when Crowley had found him slumped in a corner of a hospice and been forced to carry him away).

After a bracing breakfast, he takes a guide map from the concierge at the hotel and starts walking in the direction the ache in his chest is leading him.

In the end, Crowley is not hard to find.

Aziraphale is resting his legs on a park bench, when all of his senses suddenly go on high alert. A heart that hasn't remembered to beat for over five years suddenly kicks back into action. The hairs on his neck stand up. His whole body quivers for just a moment.

He turns his head so fast he hears something pop, and spies a coffee cart not too far away, where a very familiar lanky figure is standing, hands in pockets, leaning against a railing and waiting for his drink.

Aziraphale has almost no memory of standing up. Doesn't know how he got from bench seat to a few metres from the cart. He's simply propelled forward by the feeling of _yes_ that sweeps over him at being so close again.

He pauses, oddly breathless, newly-rekindled heart hammering wildly in his chest, and just stares.

He's still Crowley, down to the bitten nails, the overly-tight pants, and the snakeskin boots. The sight of him fills Aziraphale with so much joy and pure feeling that he's completely overwhelmed. He can't breathe, he can't speak, he can't do anything at all but watch, hands pressed together in front of him, beaming.

Crowley takes out his mobile phone, some absurdly modern thing with too much glass and nothing solid to hold on to, and flicks his thumb over it lazily. Whatever he's doing on it, he looks just bored enough to be completely trendy.

Maybe it's this that makes him finally look up, or maybe having the full force of an angel's attention would make anyone sit up and notice, but eventually Crowley breaks his gaze from his phone and glances around.

His eyes immediately meet Aziraphale's and the intensity of their gaze is so powerful it's like there's nobody else in the world but the two of them, right there, in that moment.

Aziraphale is too busy having a complete emotional supernova explode through him to read every expression that crosses Crowley's beloved face, but he picks out a few.

Shock is first, followed rapidly by dismay. Then anger, sadness, frustration, and finally, resignation.

Aziraphale is not surprised to find that Crowley is not happy to see him, but his spirits fall a little anyway.

He finally finds the strength to take a step forward.

"Hello, Crowley," he says, and his voice sounds strange even to his own ears. He's having trouble holding back the beaming smile he knows is fighting its way out of his eyes even as he tries to repress it.

Crowley says nothing, continues staring, storm clouds gathering in his face.

"Just popped in for a quick miracle," Aziraphale continues anyway, voice sounding strangled. "Care for some oysters?"

Crowley immediately peels away from the railing and strides off down the path, without answering. Aziraphale has to hurry to catch up, thankful that he's in slightly better shape than he used to be.

"Crowley, please wait! Dear boy, I've _missed _you, and I have so much to tell you-"

Crowley stops abruptly, glaring down into the angel's bright face.

"Why are you here, Aziraphale?" He demands, his lip curling back on itself. "What could you _possibly_ be here for?"

In spite of himself, and in spite of all he'd told himself about Crowley's likely attitude towards finding him here, the angel is still disappointed at his reception.

"I … missed you," he says lamely, feeling his face beginning to warm.

"Well, I didn't miss _you,_" Crowley sneers back. And he turns on his heel, and in only the second time in their entire history, snaps his fingers and disappears.

It takes some time to calm down but eventually Aziraphale can think clearly again and realises that this is not the end. Crowley knows he's here. And one thing Aziraphale knows he can count on, is that Crowley hates riddles. He won't rest until he knows why Aziraphale is here so all the angel has to do is wait.

* * *

He lasts three days before seeking Crowley out again.

* * *

The demon is sitting on a bench in the same park, facing a duck pond, when Aziraphale finds him. It's so much like old times that Aziraphale is struck all over again by how much he'd lost when Crowley had walked out of his life. He rubs a little at the ache in his chest and steps forward.

He approaches soundlessly, though he's sure Crowley knows he's there by the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, and sits without saying a word.

They both sit silently facing the water for a long time.

* * *

The third time they meet, it's by chance.

Crowley is passing a sunny little café where Aziraphale is finishing off his second Earl Grey as he finally fills in number 12 down of his pocket crossword book. He happens to glance up just as Crowley peers inside.

Aziraphale is out of his seat in an instant, crossword book forgotten.

"Crowley!" He cries, bursting outside and looking up and down the street. He just catches him, red hair shining like a beacon, as he hotfoots it away as fast as he can. While Aziraphale still considers himself above manipulating traffic (though the much-expedited trip across the world would suggest otherwise), he's not above dropping a few of his morals to make headway when on foot. Accordingly, a clear path opens up between himself and his target, and he manages to catch up with Crowley before he gets more than a block away.

"Crowley!" He exclaims again, grabbing onto the demon's upper arm to slow him down. "Crowley, wait, please, just one second."

To his surprise, Crowley stops and turns to face him.

"What is it?" He asks impatiently, tiredly.

"I … brought you something. From home," Aziraphale blurts.

Crowley's eyebrow twitches.

"What? Is it a book?"

"No, it's not a book," Aziraphale responds with a smile, giddy with the response. A conversation! They're having an actual conversation now. "Look, I'll show you. I'll take you to lunch, we can -"

Crowley's face immediately closes up.

"Just give me whatever you brought, and go home," he says shortly, pulling free of Aziraphale's grasp and crossing his arms.

"I can't," says Aziraphale. "It's … I'll have to give it to you later. It's at the hotel. Can you come by later? Or we can go now? It's not far."

Crowley looks to be arguing with himself. He clearly wants to know what Aziraphale brought him from London, but doesn't want to walk with him to find out.

"Fine," he grinds out eventually. "Lead the way, a-"

He bites down angrily on the last word.

* * *

He makes Crowley wait outside while he brings the Bentley out. They work well together, now, the car and the angel.

Crowley is slouching impatiently against a post when Aziraphale glides up beside him in the Bentley.

"I brought you an old friend," he calls, and for the first time since he set out on this mad journey, he's nervous.

He'd needed the Bentley to find Crowley but it was also a risk to bring it so far when Crowley had purposefully left it behind. He and the car were so entwined that it was possible he'd decided to shed the part of his identity that drove a Bentley like a second skin.

Crowley's face, when he sees the Bentley, is awash with emotion. A tinge of red appears high on his cheek bones and Aziraphale can see his jaw working as he takes it all in. His eyes are darting over the car and around him at Auckland, as though trying to understand that the car, his car, is really _here_.

He stretches out one hand and rests it lightly on the Bentley's hood. Aziraphale can almost feel the full-body shudder that goes through him at the touch. He trails his fingers across the bonnet as he slowly rounds the car, and Aziraphale slides out of the driver's side to meet him.

"You … brought the Bentley," Crowley says eventually, taking his eyes from the car to look at Aziraphale instead. "You _drove_ it?"

Aziraphale feels breathless with excitement and at being the center of Crowley's focus once more.

"I did," is all he says, instead of crowing about how he'd taught himself to drive and how the Bentley had offered its patient encouragement to help him along. He wanted to brandish his driving gloves in Crowley's face and show him the exceptional stitching and how they went with his jacket just-so. Instead, he waits.

But Crowley says nothing, still processing the sudden appearance of his beloved car and the knowledge that apparently Aziraphale can _drive_ now.

Aziraphale holds out the key.

"Would you like to drive?"

Crowley reaches for it automatically, then jerks his hand away sharply and takes a step back.

"Ah, no," he says, and all the openness from a moment before is gone, stuffed back inside the inexorable façade of disinterest. "I'd best be off, in fact. Things to do, you know."

And before Aziraphale has even finished stammering, "O-of course," he's gone, blending into the crowd as though he was never there.

* * *

After that, Crowley is almost impossible to find. Aziraphale is sad but about that but prepared to be patient.

He gets a job.

At a second-hand bookstore, of course. He finds that he rather enjoys selling books, when the books don't belong to him. Likes helping to find the right gift, enjoys helping people discover the classics. He even finds himself running a sort of unofficial book club, with customers who can't help but be drawn to his clear joy and passion for books and the treasures they hold.

He thinks about Crowley constantly, the ache in his chest somehow stronger now Crowley is so close yet unwilling to be found. It's almost worse than when he'd still been in London wondering if he'd ever see him again.

He takes the Bentley for long drives out of town on his days off, curious about this new place he finds himself in. Overall, Auckland is not so different from England. The weather is similar though there's much more sun, the city filled with the same feeling of being alive that London had, the same sins and every day miracles happening all over the place. Also, there's sushi, which is a relief.

He's on his way out for one of these jaunts, at a bakery stopping to pick up a pastry for the journey, when he finds himself almost face-to-face with his wayward demon. He and Crowley both enter the shop at the same time, stopping short when they see each other.

Aziraphale can't help the delighted smile that creeps over his face when their eyes meet. It's the same smile that's always leapt onto his lips when he's seen Crowley; he'd just never known what it meant before. Never realised there was anything unusual in how effortlessly _happy_ he is when they're together.

"Dear boy!" He exclaims, reaching forward, he's not sure what for, but his fingers just brush the edges of Crowley's jacket. "Oh, you're here. How wonderful. Are you going to get a pastry? Oh, but of course, of course you are. Silly me." He cuts off his rambling, simply transfixed and content to smile up into Crowley's face for as long as he can.

For his part, Crowley simply lets him run. His face is impassive and his eyes hidden behind his glasses as always, but Aziraphale doesn't feel the same cold waves of discomfort radiating off him as he had before.

"This is such nice weather, isn't it, dear?" He continues after a moment. "Just like a nice summer's day back at home. It was just getting cold when I left, you know, and I've been in so many climates just recently it's so pleasant to feel comfortable again. A bit like coming home, isn't it? Oh, a sourdough loaf and –" he glances at Crowley. "_Two_ croissants, please," he tells the girl behind the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Crowley looks grudgingly amused that Aziraphale has just ordered for him.

Aziraphale counts it as a victory.

Back outside the patisserie, he hands one of the croissants to Crowley, who thanks him but doesn't immediately move to leave, so Aziraphale barrels on.

"I-I've got the Bentley here," he stutters hopefully. "I was going to take a drive. To this little town called Piha, they've got the most marvellous scenery, I'm told." He hesitates. "Would … would you like to come?"

"Aziraphale, I-" Crowley begins, breaking off when it's clear he doesn't know how to continue. He looks uncomfortable again, standing in the bright New Zealand sun, scrubbing one hand over his head and the pastry bag dangling from the other. He clearly doesn't know what to do.

"I'll drive, of course," the angel cuts in. "The Bentley and I are good friends now, you see."

"_You're_ friends with the _Bentley?_" Crowley repeats, a small smirk working its way onto his mouth. "This I have to see." The moment he's said those last words, he immediately looks like he wished he could take them back. He flushes and looks away, clenches his fingers in the croissant bag.

"So you'll come?" Aziraphale knows he's glowing, his joy spilling over the edges.

Crowley sighs.

"I'll come," he says, in a voice that means he knows he'll regret it but is going to do it anyway.

Aziraphale can't help clapping his hands together and bouncing a little on his feet as he leads them away. Crowley rolls his eyes and gives a little shake of his head but follows Aziraphale to the car anyway.

* * *

The angel is driving his car.

Crowley is sitting in the passenger seat of his own car being driven to some picturesque village on the other side of the world from home, with the angel sitting primly upright in the driver's seat next to him. He doesn't look uncomfortable in the slightest, is adroitly navigating traffic and narrow streets, even seems to know what all the fiddly bits do.

Crowley, by contrast, has probably never felt so out of place in his life.

It's disorienting to be on the angel's left, to be doing nothing but looking out the window. His fingers twitch to be holding the steering wheel, his left leg tensing every time Aziraphale changes gears.

What had the angel said? They were _friends_ now, him and the Bentley.

The Bentley still feels like his, even sitting in the wrong place. It smells like his, and he's sure the engine gave the usual rumble of greeting as it started up. And yet he's not brave enough to tell the angel, _stop, I'll take over, you've made your point._

Because he'd thought the point had been made by leaving the Bentley in London, and now both the angel and the Bentley are here, on the other side of the world, and he finds he's not even sure what the point is anymore. Seeing the angel drive his car, though, is drawing out a strange passionate jealousy and he's not sure which of them he's jealous of. The fact he's jealous at all makes him snappish and Aziraphale is mostly silent beside him, though Crowley can almost hear all the delighted exclamations and comments he's repressing.

_It's so very green, isn't it, dear? And what a lot of sheep these people have. _

Crowley wishes he'd just say them, because the silence reminds him that everything is wrong between them, and despite having left, having finally given up on ever having what he wanted, he didn't want things to be wrong between them.

Leaving had seemed the only option, at the time. He'd waited for the angel for so long, given everything he had to persuading Aziraphale that he could be trusted, that he would make a good choice and wouldn't let him down. Had followed him across continents, chased his coattails for thousands of years, hoping that one day Aziraphale would finally turn to him with that bright, fond smile, and say, _here we go, dear, I'm ready now. _And he would have shown Aziraphale his entire heart, opened himself up and given his best friend everything he had.

He'd thought, after the end-that-wasn't, that Aziraphale would finally be ready. He'd laid it all on the line, given Aziraphale every clue to help him see.

_We can go away together._

_I lost my best friend._

_We're on our side._

_You can stay at my place. If you want._

But nothing had changed, not really. Aziraphale still kept his distance, refused to see anything he didn't want to see, assumed everything would just continue on as it was.

And it had all, in the end, simply been too much.

He'd been overwhelmed by the dashing of all his hopes, higher than they'd ever dared to be before, and he'd convinced himself there was nothing else to do but leave.

So he'd torn his life apart, given his plants away, sold the apartment, abandoned the Bentley, and popped off to the first place he could think of (which had been Brazil, and he'd never make that mistake again), and then kept on travelling until he'd landed here. Heartsick, on the other side of the world, in the most British place outside of Britain.

And now, here he was. Back in the Bentley, back with the angel, his emotions right back where they'd always been; clasped carelessly in the angel's perfectly manicured hand.

What was he _doing_ here? What had possessed him to bring the Bentley across the world, and then to stay, despite Crowley's obvious efforts to make him leave?

Eventually, the question gets the better of him and he breaks the silence to ask.

"Why did you come here?"

Aziraphale's eyes dart over to him before fixing back on the road. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and Crowley notices with a rush of unwanted affection that he has actual _driving gloves._ Of course he does.

"It's very good weather," the angel says evasively.

Crowley rolls his eyes.

"Aziraphale …"

"I just … missed you."

The words hang in the air between them, making the car seem too small to fit everything they were both feeling and not saying.

Aziraphale is wondering if this is the moment to reveal everything. He knows he must go carefully, and it doesn't seem like quite the thing to go laying everything on Crowley's doorstep, after he'd been hurting so badly he felt he had to leave.

Crowley is stuffing his hopes back in the cage he'd forced them into five years ago when he walked away. Aziraphale can't even give him _this_, can't even unwind enough to answer this one question. What had he expected, really? That the angel would stop the car, put his hand on Crowley's and say, _dear, I came all this way for you. Because I love you, please, show me what the back seat of this car is really for?_

He resumes looking out the window and doesn't ask again.

* * *

They stop eventually, Aziraphale digging up his thermos and picnic basket, and leading them off to some picturesque spot he'd found in a guidebook. He spreads the blanket down on what is, Crowley has to admit, a very nice grassy hill, looking out over the ocean on one side and the rainforest to the other.

Aside from the sourdough and the croissants, they have local butter and jam, and a homemade pesto Aziraphale's favourite café is famous for.

Eventually, the angel can't repress his prattle anymore, and Crowley is treated to a treatise on everything that has changed and not changed back in London. Hearing about all the old familiar places makes him ache in ways he can't explain, but he also finds himself slowly unwinding, too, until he's leaning back on his arms with his long legs stretched out in front of him, asking questions to spur Aziraphale on.

He doesn't look at Aziraphale, but he can feel every gesture, is acutely aware of every time he shifts his weight, has to train himself not to pull away when Aziraphale reaches for the butter and his hands drifts too close to Crowley's arm. This feeling … this longing is why he'd left, dammit, and here was the angel dragging him back in with his tartan thermos and his picnics on hillsides, and driving his _car._

After lunch, Aziraphale produces a bottle of wine and offers it tentatively to Crowley. He hesitates, his eyes meeting Aziraphale's for just a moment, then reaches for the bottle.

They don't make it to Piha.

* * *

Things change after the road trip. It's as though that one day had opened a doorway that Crowley can't close again, no matter how he tries. Despite everything, he feels himself opening up again, letting the angel back in. He doesn't want to feel the bittersweet agony of hope that has rekindled in his heart, but he's helpless under the fondness of Aziraphale's smile.

And Aziraphale himself seems different now, in ways Crowley had never imagined he could be. He's more free with his touches, for one, letting their hands brush as they walk side-by-side, or reaching up to adjust Crowley's scarf, fingers dusting against his collar bones and making the demon swallow compulsively as his skin alights with want. Talks more readily, if still looking like he's trying to repress every word, about his feelings towards his fellow angels and his disillusionment with his administration. He doesn't hesitate to call them friends anymore, either.

To Crowley, it seems like Aziraphale is slowly testing how much of himself he can unravel and still recognise himself, and he doesn't know how he feels about it. He's loved every part of Aziraphale for so long, knows exactly who he is, and his dogged devotion to heaven and the almighty is part of that, no matter how Crowley's tried to make him question things over the years. He depends on that determined loyalty to things he cares for, in a way, because it's the thing that's kept him in Crowley's company for all this time. His belief that there's good in Crowley despite everything, that Crowley might be a demon but isn't therefore necessarily _evil_, has made it possible for Crowley to tempt him to dinners and insinuate himself into Aziraphale's life at every turn.

And now he's here, as far from home as he's been in years, sitting on a tartan picnic blanket with Crowley, watching the sunset and sipping cocoa from his flask, seemingly content. Crowley is lounging next to him, ostensibly watching the spread of oranges and yellows across the skyline, but actually watching the angel's profile and wondering.

The Bentley is parked close by, and it strikes Crowley all at once how strange and wonderful this whole thing is. Five years ago he'd been in soul-deep despair, packed up or given away everything he owned, everything that tied him to London and to his love for this angel and his stupid bow ties and his, "oh, be-bop". Now they're both on the other side of the world, and his car, the one he'd thought he'd lost twice now, is here with them, and it feels like all the parts of himself are knitting themselves back together.

"Isn't this simply spiffing?" Aziraphale says suddenly, sighing happily and startling Crowley from his musings. "I saw a sunset just like this in Bangkok a few months ago. We were waiting to take our transport from Bangkok to Makassar so we drove out to escape the city – flashy lights, people everywhere, oh you'd have loved it, and –"

"Hang on," Crowley interrupts. "When were _you_ in Bangkok?"

Aziraphale looks at him in surprise.

"When we were trying to find you," he says slowly, like he's missed something that would explain why Crowley's suddenly lost his senses.

"And you thought I was in _Bangkok?_" Crowley's eyebrows are climbing higher on his face.

"N-nooo," Aziraphale says, still looking bewildered. "I had no idea where you were, my dear. I was following the Bentley. I could feel we were getting closer by then, but I still couldn't pinpoint you. You were shielding, rather." He gives Crowley a pointed look, which he ignores.

None of this is making any sense. Following the Bentley? Aziraphale didn't know where he was? How had they got here, then?

A thought slowly occurs to him.

"You didn't … you couldn't have driven _all_ the way here?" He says it like a statement but his voice trails off at the end like a question and Aziraphale looks like he's just beginning to understand that Crowley hadn't known. Had accepted that Aziraphale could drive but not realised that Aziraphale had driven _here._

"My dear, I didn't know where you were," he repeats gently. "How else could we have got here?"

"I thought you'd just –" Crowley makes a _poof_ motion with his hands.

"Can't _poof_ your way to a destination you don't know," Aziraphale reminds him. "Let alone what it would take to get both myself and the Bentley across the whole world. No, my dear, we came the human way. Though I admit," and he blushes a little, "well, I'm not quite sure I didn't – that is, I think it would take a human quite a bit longer than it took me, I'm afraid."

Crowley is shaking his head in amazement and gives a little laugh like he still can't believe it.

"You really drove across the world to find me?" He's grinning. "Why, Aziraphale, anyone would think you _cared._"

He regrets saying it the moment it's out of his mouth. Aziraphale immediately stiffens and Crowley feels the atmosphere charge instantly.

"I do care," the angel say softly, his eyes darting over to Crowley's, and he starts fidgeting with his pocket watch. "And I wanted to bring you the Bentley, too, of course. I thought … I thought you might want it. I thought you might miss ... it."

He glances up at Crowley under his lashes.

Crowley is completely lost. He sighs and takes his glasses off to rub tiredly at the space between his eyes, and startles when he feels gentle fingers pluck the glasses from his hand. His eyes fly open just in time to see them being tucked away in the picnic basket.

"It's just us," Aziraphale says when he turns back. "No need for hiding."

Crowley wants to protest, but there's something in the angel's eyes that stops him, and Aziraphale seems pleased when he doesn't argue. He's still sitting upright and Crowley is still lounging stretched out with his head propped up on one arm. After a moment's hesitation, the angel relaxes enough to recline back on his arms so they're almost at the same eyeline.

They stare at each other for a long few moments, and Aziraphale appears to be arguing with himself over something. Crowley waits.

"I – it was very unpleasant without you," he says eventually, glancing down. "Everything was going on as normal but there was no one to - Crowley, I broke up a drug smuggling ring and I couldn't even tell you."

He's not surprised when Crowley throws his head back and laughs. This is the reaction he'd missed at the time, and he lets the feeling of completeness wash over him, smiling, until he is struck by the site that is Crowley, laughing. He doesn't know what look is on his face but he knows he must look completely spellbound by the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

"You have to tell me that one," Crowley demands when he stops laughing, both because he wants to know and because Aziraphale's gaze is making him warm all over. Is he staring at his _mouth?_

Aziraphale gives himself a little shake and tells him, and this time when Crowley finishes laughing, Aziraphale is laughing too.

He stops abruptly when their eyes meet.

"Crowley," he says, voice low, eyes searching Crowley's face. "The night you left –"

And Crowley finds himself standing up and brushing down his jacket because this is not happening. He is not ready to have this conversation with the angel right now, if ever. He's been so seduced by the picnics and the touches and Aziraphale's opening up that he'd forgotten that _he can't have this._

"It doesn't matter," he says sharply. "It's over."

"But Crowley, I wanted to say –"

"Come on, it's time to go." Crowley says firmly, and holds out his hand before he realizes what he's doing. Aziraphale sighs and reaches for Crowley's hand before he can retract it. The feeling of the angel's soft, warm hand in his catches him by surprise and he loses his balance as Aziraphale pulls himself up.

They both stumble and when they've righted themselves, huffing a laugh despite the tension, their hands are pressed between their chests, still joined. They both freeze when they realise, eyes darting up to meet each other's. The moment stretches on endlessly long as they stare each other, both tense and wanting and not knowing what to do next.

Crowley is aflame with emotions, his entire body burning with feeling. Aziraphale can feel him trembling and wonders if he can feel how Aziraphale is shaking too.

"Aziraphale," he says roughly, and Aziraphale is totally lost in the pull of his golden eyes. "Why are you here?"

Aziraphale swallows and knows the right moment has arrived. He squeezes Crowley's hand tighter for a moment, finds his courage, and finally breathes, "For you. I'm here for you."

It feels monumental, a confession, exposing himself in a way he never has before, and he feels dizzy with it, with finally speaking a truth he's ignored for so long. For Crowley, it's petrol-soaked kindling to the fire of hope that has been burning increasing hot for weeks now, but he needs more, needs to hear everything, and so he bites his lip and says nothing, hoping the angel will be brave enough to say it.

Aziraphale tries to collect himself, to organise his thoughts. He knows he only has one chance at this and he can't blow it, he just can't.

"When you left," he begins. "I thought it would be like any other time and you'd be back soon enough, and I just had to wait you out. It wasn't so bad," he shrugs and smiles a bit wanly. "Lonely, but I've spent centuries without you before, I thought it would be easy to do it again. But when I found the Bentley, and the doorman told me you'd given him your plants-" he breaks off, takes a moment to breathe as an excuse to get himself under control. His voice has started to go a bit wobbly and that's the last thing he needs right now. If he doesn't get this out now, he never will. "Well, when I realised you didn't intend to come back. _Ever._ That … well that just wouldn't do."

Crowley is still staring at him, his yellow eyes focussed and intent, urging him on. Aziraphale darts a momentary glance at them and feels like he is drowning.

"So I learnt to drive, sold the bookshop, and the Bentley and I … came to find you," he finishes lamely, finding his mouth suddenly dry.

Crowley's eyes have gone wide, his grip tightening on Aziraphale's hand.

"You _sold the bookshop?"_ He repeats incredulously. "Aziraphale! Your _books_!"

Aziraphale smiles bravely, tries to pretend it doesn't hurt, the loss of his precious old friends, but is sure he does a very bad job. He tries to explain.

"I didn't know where you were, whether you'd ever want to come back. And I thought, what good are books," he says, a tiny sob in his voice, "if you're not there to distract me from them?"

"Angel," Crowley breathes and there is wonder in his face and in his eyes, and it's the _angel _that does it, after so long. Aziraphale drags Crowley's hand forward to press his lips hard to the demon's knuckles, then pulls it forward to cradle his face.

"Please tell me I'm not too late," he says pleadingly, eyes begging Crowley to understand and to forgive and to still want him, after everything.

Crowley uses the hand on Aziraphale's face to bring their foreheads together and they stay that way for a long moment, their breaths harsh but beautiful between them.

"You're not too late," Crowley murmurs. "Aziraphale. _Angel._"

Aziraphale can't help the little sobbing gasp that escapes him and then they're both surging forward, Aziraphale's trembling lips meeting Crowley's hungry ones, and his hands grabbing onto anything they can find to bring him closer – his scarf, his collar, the back of his head.

It's a kiss that goes on and on, the slick slide of their mouths so perfect and so right that Aziraphale can think of nothing but, _yes_ and _more_ and _this._ He's drowning in Crowley, in Crowley's hand in his hair, his arm wrapped around his waist, his little cut-off moans and gasps.

When they finally pull away, it's only to rest their foreheads together again, to trade happy little smiles and small kisses that somehow lead into longer ones.

There's one thing Crowley still has to know but he can't quite find the words.

"When did you … uh? You know, when did you..?"

Aziraphale smiles up into his eyes.

"How long have I loved you or when did I know I loved you?" It's so easy now to say the words, to be seen and known by this amazing being.

"Both? Either?" Crowley suggests with a little huff of air.

"I knew I loved you the day I realised you weren't coming back. A life without you was … well. As for how long I've loved you," he gives a funny half-shrug and chokes out, "In the beginning, there was a garden-"

Crowley kisses him again, doesn't need to hear the rest, has heard the words, "I love you" and considers that more than enough reward for all that he's been through.

"Let's go home, angel," he says, taking Aziraphale's hand in his and starting to lead him back to the Bentley. He stops before they've gone more than two paces and leans over to whisper into the angel's ear, making him shiver, "And this time, I'm driving."

* * *

Notes: I don't really think Aziraphale loved Crowley from the beginning, but it was a delicious line and I am weak.


End file.
